


Pretty piece of flesh

by flesh



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Bottom Jensen, Dehumanization, Dystopia, M/M, Original Character(s), POV Third Person, Post-Apocalypse, Reference to Rape, Reference to Underage Sex, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 13:00:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flesh/pseuds/flesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hired killer Marley is sent to dispatch a trouble-making warlord.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty piece of flesh

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hemrage](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Hemrage).



> Written for Hemrage, as part of the 2013 spn_j2_xmas livejournal exchange.

Even by the standards set in this stinking misery-pit of a world, Mad Morgan has a reputation as a nasty bastard. 

Worse, and despite the name, he hasn't got the crazy-kind of nasty that a lot of other bosses do. There's a reason his territory stretches from its heartland beneath the ruins of a Pre-Calibration capital city, right out into the toxic gray deserts on one side and the perpetually storming ocean coast on the other.

Unlike Lutha the Cannibal, or that gibbering ape, Jeremiah Sunn, Mad Morgan's not only got big enough balls to seize power, but the brains to keep it. 

Of course, if Mad Morgan were a soft target or likely to self-detonate, Marley's employers wouldn't be paying him so much to kill the guy. They're paying the other two plenty, but not as much as Marley. Marley, after all, is the one who's got to get close enough to Mad Morgan to murder the fucker.

He meets Cannon, his back-up muscle, in a cramped little bar just outside the central hub of Mad Morgan's subterranean city. The bar has a ceiling as low as a coffin's, and the air is thick and foul. It's been constructed haphazardly against the side of one of the many rumbling, concrete industrial generators, built like squat toadstools, which provide power for the area. Rust-colored water leaks in slow, rhythmic gushes from between the riveted metal panels low down on the organ's wall, like the engine's forever bleeding out from a fatal wound.

Cannon is waiting at a table, a half glass of some dark, oily liquid in front of him. His tiny jarhead, pink and raw-looking, is set atop a hulking pair of shoulders, muscle bunched upon muscle. He looks Marley up and down in the obnoxious yellowish glare of artificial light, and some flicker of thought passes behind his piggy little eyes. 

Marley waits it out. These days, pretty much everyone's a freakshow, but Marley knows he's uglier than a whole lot of them. He's one big callus. His skin is white and tough, and about once a month, he has to take his knife and carve it away from his eyes, his mouth, and every other important orifice, because otherwise, he'd be smothered in the cocoon of dead skin.

It's ugly as sin, sure, but it's also the reason that axe that prettyboy Cary-Lee brought down on Marley's shoulder left nothing but a bloodless dent. Same axe in Marley's hands left Cary-Lee a very unpretty pile of body-parts. 

Finally, Cannon picks up his glass, downs his drink, and slams it back down on the table before his speaks. 

"I've heard about you," he says. 

Due to Marley's condition, his eyes and mouth being little more than ragged slits in so much desiccated skin, he's very good at keeping his face blank. He waits. 

"Guess if anyone can get this done, it'd be you," says Cannon. 

"Nice vote of confidence," says Marley. "You got a plan for me?"

"Limp's gonna meet us after Court."

"Limp?" Marley echoes skeptically. 

Cannon flashes him an unlikable smile. "Boy's got himself some honest-to-god tentacles all right, but they're about as much use as his dick."

Marley's expression doesn't change. "And why exactly do we need that particular sack of shit?"

"'Cause he works for Mad Morgan, and he can get us in."

:::

Mad Morgan holds court in the ruins of a Pre-Calibration cathedral. Sometime during one of the host of wars and natural disasters that followed the Calibration, the ground dropped out from beneath the cathedral and let it fall into the darkness. 

It sits a little apart from the rotting heart of Mad Morgan's city, quieter though by no means safer. Dead white light from aboveground makes it through the cracks in the rocks and gives the cathedral an eerie illumination. Wind, too, makes it through from aboveground, and it moves through the old stones with a sound as hollow as ghosts. It's only slightly louder than the underground thump of the industrial organs working. 

Pieces of colored glass remain in just one window of the cathedral, and Marley doesn't give a fuck about ancient religions, but he stops to look at it, thinks about what a beautiful sight it must have been, before the world went to hell. 

There isn't much room to move and people jostle together under the shattered ceiling, muttering and grumbling in lowered voices. Outside of a riot, it's the most people Marley's ever seen in one place. 

"This way," says Cannon, and he guides Marley through the throng towards the front. 

Where the Pre-Calibration worshippers would have put their altars and idols, Mad Morgan is sitting on his throne. 

He looks like the duke of Hell. He's flanked on both sides by a squad of heavily-armed members of his army, all fucked-up in their own special way. A pair of battle dogs lies at his feet, sullenly eyeing anyone who should approach.

From the thick muscles of his scarred, bare arms, to the steely glint in his black eyes, everything about Mad Morgan is an unspoken threat of violence. His metal throne is huge and high-backed, but he still only barely fits it. The fat cigar he's got clamped in his mouth pulls his teeth into a feral grin. Even despite the silver threads in Mad Morgan's wolfish mane of unkempt dark hair, Marley feels an unexpected tremor of unease at the idea of going up against him. 

There's a naked boy on Mad Morgan's knee. He's curled up against Mad Morgan's broad chest and his long, lithe legs dangle between the wide spread of Mad Morgan's own, far bigger legs. The protective curl of Mad Morgan's arm around the boy's waist, the massive span of his hand on the boy's naked thigh as he strokes the kid's bare skin: the scale is all wrong, obscene even. _Sick, baby-raping fuck_ , thinks Marley. 

The young guy right beside the throne is clearly Mad Morgan's personal bodyguard. Marley really hopes Limp's plan doesn't involve going head to head with this guy. Mad Morgan is a challenging enough prospect, but this guy? This guy's a giant, a fucking nightmare over seven-foot tall and packed with muscle. 

The bodyguard surveys the crowd, and his eyes narrow when he sees someone coming a little too close to the throne. He starts forward, and Marley notes he's not reaching for any weapon – because what the hell kind of weapon could make this guy any more dangerous? – but the intruder's already nervously skittered back into the uncertain safety of the crowd. The bodyguard relaxes, and he's actually pretty good-looking if you can ignore the image of him popping your arms out of their sockets. 

As he takes his place back by the throne, the bodyguard leans down to murmur something in Mad Morgan's ear, and, at that moment, the child Mad Morgan's petting turns his head, and Marley sees his face. His breath catches in his throat. 

Beside him, Cannon chuckles knowingly, and says, "Yeah. That's Jensen." 

Jensen is the most beautiful creature Marley's ever seen. He shines. In this one boy, genetics demonstrates the heart-stopping perfection it was capable of, before the Calibration turned the human race into freaks and mutants.

Marley can't stop staring. He's aware his mouth is gaping open, and that he is in danger of standing out in the crowd. But he can't look away from such loveliness. 

The boy is older than Marley first thought, old enough to be a very young man, but still smooth-faced and unmarked. His mouth is all kissable, red softness, while, beneath the smoky sweep of his lashes, his eyes are huge and distinctly green. A few freckles are scattered over his milky skin, and they fall far short of counting as a flaw. Though there's nothing but innocence in his gaze, not even the nicest guy in the world could look at a boy like that and not get all kind of vicious ideas. 

There isn't a single thing wrong with him. No seeping pox, no extra eyes, no tumor-like growths sprouting hair and teeth. 

And Marley is surprised to find that it makes him angry, really fucking angry. It's an insult to the rest of them. The one specimen of pure beauty in this whole world, and it's so rare and so fragile. It's just this naked boy, held on Mad Morgan's lap, to be kept and used by him.

Perhaps sensing the growing hostility in Marley's demeanor, Cannon elbows him and mutters, "You wanna get us killed? Cut it out."

It's only when the bodyguard's gaze singles him out in the crowd that Marley can pull himself together. He drops his eyes to the ground, even though the image of that boy is burned into his retinas, and tries to level out his breathing. He waits, and hopes that the bodyguard moves on. 

When no member of Mad Morgan's guard hauls him out for inspection, Marley guesses he's safe. 

He's grateful though to Cannon for bringing him here, because if the first time he laid eyes ob Jensen was when he was trying to kill Mad Morgan, it's pretty fucking likely that'd turn out fatally unfortunate for Marley. 

"Who's next?" Mad Morgan calls out. His voice is smoldering and dark, and it carries easily through the cathedral. A lull falls at once over the crowds. 

Mad Morgan's clerk steps forward. She's a young redheaded woman, with a bony, pretty face, and an unexpectedly cheerful manner. 

"Lawman Quinn, against Farouka Soanes," the woman announces.

Mad Morgan frowns and leans forward in his seat. Jensen turns those wide green eyes on his onto the crowd, his expression curiously apathetic. There's a ripple of movement among those gathered, then a man and a woman come to stand before the throne. 

Soanes is a sturdily built woman in her late thirties, dressed for farmstead work. Her black hair is pulled back into a tight, shiny bun. There are patterns of lines on her face, raised like deep scars but the same dusky color as the rest of her skin, and they do nothing to detract from her striking good looks.

She keeps her chin high and eyes pointed forward, despite Lawman Quinn's proximity to her. 

It's fairly obvious to Marley what the nature of this dispute is. He's met a hundred guys like Lawman Quinn before. His friendship lasts just as long as it takes to drain you dry. He's greedy and slippery, and Soanes won't have a moment's peace now he's set on her. 

He's older than Soanes, about Marley's age, and he's got one good human eye and one round, lidless eye nearly twice the size of the other. That fucked-up eye is blood-shot and bulging. Otherwise, his face is broad and tanned to goldenness. The metal on his belt and his boots is clean, and the hide duster he's wearing is worth more than the usual lawman's salary can afford. 

Mad Morgan nods towards the lawman and says, "This isn't the first time you've brought this woman to me. What's she done now?" 

"Still not paid her dues, Sire," says Lawman Quinn. He sounds regretful, but Marley doesn't put much store in it. That unblinking eye of his flicks back to Soanes far too often.

"Reckon the lawman'd like to take that money back in trade," Cannon says to Marley, voice dropped to a whisper.

Mad Morgan sighs, purses his lips, and looks to Soanes. "How far behind are you?"

"I wouldn't be behind at all if this rotting piece of afterbirth hadn't tampered with my machines," Soanes says angrily. 

"Is that true?" Mad Morgan demands of the lawman. 

Lawman Quinn looks hurt by the accusation. He sweeps his hat from his head and holds it to his chest. "Sire, I was forced to shut down one of Miss Soanes' machines before she did herself an injury! I had told her before that that old wreck was dangerous, and I couldn't allow-"

"I never asked for your help! " Soanes cries out. 

"So she's late with her dues because you shut down her machine?" Mad Morgan says, cutting over the top of both of them. He casts a disgusted look at his bodyguard, then turns back to Soanes and Lawman Quinn.

He points to Soanes first. "You owe the lawman a further fifteen percent of your late dues. If you don't pay before the end of the cycle, it goes up to thirty." He motions impatiently with his hand. "And so on. Understand?" 

Soanes nods her head curtly, but holds her tongue. It's a wise move, thinks Marley. 

Jensen, Mad Morgan's fuckdoll, he notes, is rubbing the knuckles of the hand Mad Morgan has on his naked thigh, like he's forgotten all about the Court. He's simple, thinks Marley, more of a child in his head than his body suggests. Marley isn't sure whether that's a failing, or simply whether it makes Jensen all the more exquisitely innocent.

"And you," says Mad Morgan to Lawman Quinn. "Just take her dues and let her lose a hand if she wants. And, Lawman?" Mad Morgan fixes him with a grimly meaningful look. "This better be the last I hear of this." 

Lawman Quinn half-bows, mutters, "Yes, Sire," and Marley thinks the hearing is over, until Mad Morgan, who's already looking over to his clerk, stops still. Slow and deadly, he turns his gaze back to Lawman Quinn. 

As if feeling the dreadful weight of Mad Morgan's attention, Lawman Quinn freezes. Marley recognizes the way the lawman's shoulders hunch, the horrified, hunted look in his eyes. He's seen his own prey react the same, in those last heartbeats when they see him coming. 

The entire Court has gone mute, acting on the same primitive instinct that quiets beasts before the slaughterhouse. Even Cannon swallows nervously beside Marley.

Mad Morgan smiles then, so easy and so laidback, but nobody's relaxing because there's the light of hell in his eyes. 

"Don't tell me yes, when you mean no, Lawman," says Mad Morgan, his tone one of gentle rebuke. "And don't ever, _ever_ tell me no."

Acting on some signal that Marley wasn't aware of, Mad Morgan's clerk swiftly steps up to Lawman Quinn and, with more strength than Marley expected her capable of, drives a blade into his breast. Though blood spurts over her face and clothes, she doesn't shy away. 

Someone in the crowd cries out in alarm. Soanes makes the shape of a protective charm over her chest and takes a few quick steps away. 

Marley wonders how the fuckdoll will react to such a sight, but Jensen has his face hidden in Mad Morgan's chest, and Mad Morgan is rubbing the bumps of his spine soothingly. 

Quinn stares at the hilt protruding from his flesh, and the clerk's small hand holding it. The clerk drags the knife downwards, as low as his belly. One quick snap of her wrist to turn the knife first, then she pulls free. 

The lawman blinks, while his sticky red guts unwind and spill upon the floor. He clutches at his gaping wound, but the blood soon overflows his fingers. The smell of blood and human shit is powerfully unpleasant. He drops to the floor, into the slop of his own insides. 

Mad Morgan ignores him. His attention is on Soanes instead, who watches him with wide, fearful eyes. 

"You owe your dues direct to me now," Mad Morgan tells her. "We'll forget the fifteen percent."

He glances to the clerk, who is ineffectually mopping at her bloody cuff. "Is that it for today?" 

She gives him a cheerful smile, all business as usual, and says, "Yep, that's all for today, boss." 

Mad Morgan nods, looking thoroughly glad to hear it. He rises from his throne, easily scooping Jensen up in his arms as he moves. His bodyguard is right at his side, and a half dozen soldiers fall into position to surround him. Before he leaves, he spares a glance at the lawman. 

"Let the dogs have him," says Mad Morgan. 

That mean pair of Mad Morgan's dogs get to their feet and pad over to investigate Lawman Quinn's body. They're too well-fed and too well-cared for to rush at the flesh. They nose at Lawman Quinn's exposed innards, huffing and snorting, before they begin to eat in earnest. 

The lawman's fingers flex against the stone floor. 

:::

Limp is a nervous-looking individual, a good decade or so younger than Marley and Cannon. At his age, Marley was still doing bounty work in the surface-slums in the northern states, before he realized killing people paid a whole lot more. 

There's a clammy sheen glistening on Limp's skin, and there are oddly-shaped bulges beneath his coat that Marley guesses to be his impotent tentacles. He's waiting for them just beyond the archway of the cathedral, fidgeting and glancing around at the departing crowds, and looking suspicious as hell. 

He doesn't inspire confidence. 

Cannon approaches him, and greets him with a quick nod of the head. Limp licks his lips nervously and nods back at him, before he looks to Marley. He stares a little too long at Marley, and Marley decides then and there that he's a loose end that'll need tying up before the job's done.

"Hi," says Limp. "I was getting worried you guys wouldn't make it and I didn't know how to get in contact with you and-" 

"Save it for somewhere more private," says Marley in a low voice. The cathedral's emptying out fast and they'll soon be obvious to the soldiers. He has no desire to be seen with either of them; it'll be easier to escape afterwards if there's nobody to connect Marley to the other two.

Limp takes them back to his home, which is two dingy rooms in a living-quarter right beside a refuse channel. The air in the alley is swampish, and, filtered through it, the city lighting turns a murky, nightmarish amber. 

Inside, Cannon helps himself to the last of a bottle of cheap factory alcohol, while Limp watches on, uncomfortable with the theft but unwilling to protest. At last, Cannon tosses the bottle aside and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

"How about Lawman Quinn going to the dogs, huh?" says Limp, making a weak attempt at conversation. 

"Reckon Mad Morgan knew what he was doing there," says Cannon. "Lundgren's own nephew told me on the sly that the Lawman's been paying Lundgren to have his guys scare off tenants who won't pay what the Lawman wants. Only reason he had to take Soanes to Court was 'cause the woman's too well known to disappear."

Limp's been listening, his eyes getting wider and wider. "But how would the Boss know that?" he says.

Marley notes how Limp refers to Mad Morgan, and decides he's definitely going to have to go. As soon as the boy's served his purpose, Marley'll start looking for opportunities to get rid of him. 

"Mad Morgan always fucking knows," Cannon says confidently, pauses a moment, then the smile slides off his face. He and Limp are clearly both thinking the same thing: better hope Mad Morgan doesn't know about this.

Last thing Marley needs is these two amateurs losing their goddamn nerve so he steps in. "How are you getting us inside?" he says to Limp. 

Apparently, Limp doesn't even have the guts to look him in the face. "Oh, uh, it's a good plan. It gets you past Jared." He casts Marley a quick look, and clarifies, "Jared's the Boss's bodyguard. The really tall guy."

Cannon slaps Limp on the back, and Limp's shoulders tighten like he's expecting an attack but he smiles shakily. "I like this plan already," Cannon says. "How the hell are you getting us past Padalecki?"

"The Boss doesn't have anyone in the room when he's-" Even in the dirty gloom, the darkening color in Limp's cheeks is evident. He clears his throat, avoids looking at even Cannon. "When he's with Jensen."

The crush the boy's nursing is both obvious and ridiculous. As if a little scumbag like Limp, awkward and pathetic and sexually useless, would ever get a taste of something like that. 

Cannon makes a rough noise in the back of his throat. "I tell you, I'm straight as any man, but I'd tie that boy down and fuck him 'til he bled."

"What's going to happen to Jensen?" says Limp. He's desperate enough that he forgets to be afraid of Marley, and looks him square in the eye. "After you kill the Boss, what's going to happen to Jensen?" 

Marley thinks better of answering that. He holds a hand up and says, "One thing at a fucking time. Tell me the rest of the plan first."

For a moment, he thinks Limp might actually push the issue of the fuckdoll. Instead, he drops his gaze to the floor again. "I'll get you in to the Boss's quarters. It'll just be him. Him and Jensen."

:::

Marley's happy with the plan. It's risky, of course, probably the riskiest he's ever undertaken, but then, Mad Morgan's the riskiest target he's ever taken. 

Spark-sensors mean he'll have to kill Mad Morgan up close and personal; if he shoots from any kind of distance the sensors will cause a commotion and there will go any chance of getting out alive. But Limp can deactivate the sensors for twenty seconds, and so Marley will have to make the most of that time, and hit Mad Morgan with an explosive round right between the eyes.

He'd use a knife, but Mad Morgan's a big man, and Marley can't be sure of wounding him badly enough at first strike to render him unable to counter-attack. Poison is equally useless. A man like Mad Morgan will have a fearsome constitution.

Limp's a little terrified when he realizes Marley means them to go in that very night but his nerves and protests are easily rolled over. 

"C'mon, little man," says Cannon, in his best impression of friendliness. He claps him too hard on the back again, nearly sending Limp stumbling into the wall. "Don't you wanna get this over and done with? Think about why you're doing it! Think about the money!" 

But Limp's not thinking about the money, Marley thinks darkly. He's thinking about the fuckdoll. 

Cannon's quiet for a little bit, as they leave Limp's apartment and start their way back into the city, then he says, "So _we're_ doing it for the money, but-" He casts a quick glance at Marley, unexpectedly thoughtful, "-why'd your employers want him dead?" 

Marley's smiles are never pleasant, and this one is no exception. "You know what? Didn't occur to me to ask."

Cannon lets it go, as if that is good enough, but Marley can think of plenty of reasons for the order himself. 

There's that stiff-backed, holier-than-thou bastard, Baron Elba, who's just recently sworn fealty to Mad Morgan, substantially increasing the size of Mad Morgan's lands and military force. 

Then there's that little prick, Kaizer, son-in-law to Fred 'The Demon' Lehne, who had himself a good time last year killing a whole township under Mad Morgan's protection. Lehne's arguments that Kaizer was young and would grow out of such pastimes didn't impress, and Mad Morgan rode out personally to stomp Kaizer into the ground, humiliating Lehne in the process. 

And then there's the fuckdoll. 

"I want it," one of Marley's employers told him, the one with the hard jaw and burning eyes, the one with the voice that's both soft and cold. "If you damage it, or fail to deliver it to me, you won't be paid. This is non-negotiable."

The rest of the syndicate of Marley's employers had other, more political reasons, for wanting Mad Morgan dead, and Marley privately discounted the fuckdoll as a factor in the decision to kill Mad Morgan. Now though, now he sees why it merits a special mention. 

He knows Limp's in love with Jensen. Cannon wants to fuck him. And Marley's not sick enough in the head to know what exactly his employer wants to do with him. 

Marley, though… Marley would like to murder him. He's entertaining vivid fantasies of desecrating the fuckdoll any way he can, ruining it with blades and his fists, tugging at its pretty-pretty flesh with his teeth. Most of all, he wants to take a strip of Jensen's skin, sew it to his body, and let his own monstrous skin grow over it and devour it. 

:::

Mad Morgan's compound is a big, rough pyramid of concrete block upon mismatched concrete block, with heavy security, and Limp sends Marley and Cannon on a pretty indirect route to it. 

From below an abandoned factory, full of wrecked machinery left in tortured positions, utility tunnels run right across the compound's security line. Marley and Cannon emerge, eventually, in the relatively fresh air, on a stony patch of land outside the scope of the security lights and watchtowers. 

Limp is waiting for them. He's wringing his hands, while his coat seethes and shifts as his tentacles fret beneath it. He hurries towards them, then slows, gaze dropping to the big, blocky gun Cannon's carrying. His eyes flicker to Marley, searching for his weapon, but Marley won't draw until he's got his eyes on the prize. 

"Show us the door," Cannon hisses impatiently. 

"This way," Limp says, eyes still on Cannon's gun.

Up close, Mad Morgan's stronghold becomes evident as a result of multiple phases of building work. The main body of it is a towering heap of functional concrete units, constructed with no attempt at creating a cohesive style. At the base though are salvaged sections of other, older buildings, possessing the finer detailing that denotes Pre-Calibration architecture. There's even a large portion of a ancient building's frontispiece, put together in verdigris-colored stone, with a pair of pillars – one toppled – and a large, handless clock. 

Limp leads them to an un-overlooked door tucked behind a curtain of thorny undergrowth. There's a security panel, but its wires are exposed and dead. It's a pretty serious breach. Marley's surprised Mad Morgan hasn't been assassinated long before now. Maybe he's relied too much on the loyalty of the people working for him. Or maybe nobody's ever had the balls to go up against him before Marley. He's warmed by vicious pride. 

The door Limp has led them to opens up on what looks like an abandoned elevator shaft. The elevator itself is missing and the floor is littered with old machine parts and broken crates, but there are rungs against the side of the shaft wall, leading all the way up.

Cannon starts climbing, but Limp catches Marley's arm before he can follow. The kid's gnawing on his lower lip, and he's looking sweatier than ever. 

"After you've killed the Boss, I can have Jensen, can't I?" says Limp. His gaze helplessly flickers up to Cannon. "You won't let… you won't let anyone else have him, will you?"

Marley heaves a sigh. He only takes a moment to consider. It's not like Limp is going to live long enough for it to prove an issue. 

So Marley claps him on the shoulder, and says, "Sure, why not?"

A smile spreads all over the kid's pasty, sweaty face. He nods, clearly relieved, and starts climbing. Marley follows close behind. From his vantage point, he can see the tips of Limp's tentacles dangling just above the hem of his coat. They're as pale and moist as the rest of the kid, and Marley is struck once more by the bizarre notion of the genetically-perfect fuckdoll being touched by a deformed loser like Limp. It's perverse.

He doesn't know how high they climb, but the vibration of the industrial generators through the shaft wall grows fainter, until it's almost imperceptible. Eventually, the ladder reaches an open elevator door, wedged open by a metal scaffolding pole.

The passage at the top is just wide enough to accommodate the muscular bulk of Cannon's shoulders. He huffs and rearranges his gun against his side. The opposite wall is made of crumbling brick and plastic sheeting. Limp squashes past, prompting another irritable grunt from Cannon, and pushes to the front of the line.

"This way," he says, voice dropped to a whisper. 

As they move down the passage, the sound of voices and activity becomes audible, then drops away again. Slits of light make it through the cracks between the bricks. Like an infestation, they're moving within the walls of the compound. 

Other passages turn off, a few wider but most much narrower. A couple lead to obvious dead-ends. Unlike the others they pass, there are no cobwebs in the passageway and not much dust. Marley has a moment's worry over that, before it occurs to him that a lovelorn voyeur like Limp has probably been down here plenty of times, just to spy on the fuckdoll. 

They haven't been traveling too long before Limp stops them in order to peer through a crack in the wall. Then he beckons Marley closer to take a look, laying a finger on his lips as a warning.

Marley rolls his eyes at the gesture, because it's pretty fucking funny that Limp thinks he needs to tell him how to behave, considering Marley was murdering for money when Limp was still just his daddy's wicked intentions. But he takes a look, and, sat at a table in a standard military rec-room, he sees Padalecki's broad back, and the redheaded clerk, and a smaller, dark-haired man, all engaged in a game of cards. 

Padalecki is leaning back in his chair, considering his cards, and Mad Morgan's battle dogs are curled up like puppies at his feet. The clerk has the fan of her cards face-down against her chest while she takes a long pull from her glass. The other guy, blue-eyed and silver-smiled, has one hand under the table they're sat around, and is surreptitiously sliding a card from his sleeve. They all look so fucking good-natured. So goddamn comfortable with each other, and Marley wishes he could be there to see it when they find their boss's brains blown out against the wall. 

Cannon takes his turn to look, and Marley notes his big, relieved grin when he sees Padalecki. 

"The Boss's room is just down there," Limp just barely whispers, pointing onwards. So on they go, to where Mad Morgan is all-alone with that little whore. 

:::

Marley doesn't notice any real detail of Mad Morgan's room, because Mad Morgan has got his fuckdoll on the bed with him, and it's a goddamn vision.

Taking cover behind a panel of the wall that's corroded loose of its rivets, Marley can't see the boy's lovely face, but he can see he's been fucked good and hard. Looks like it's been a marathon, because Jensen's just boneless and taking it. Mad Morgan is propped up against the pillows on the bed, still mostly dressed aside from his tugged down pants, and looking more feral beast than human, and Jensen is slumped on top of him, still bare as the day he was born. His shoulders are shivering, but that's all the movement he's capable of. 

His slim, white thighs are spread wide, hooked far apart over Mad Morgan's hips, and Mad Morgan is holding both his wrists in his own big hand, pinned to the small of Jensen's back. 

Mad Morgan's gazing up at Jensen, looking so goddamn pleased with himself, and his eyes are like sparks of hellfire. Then, like a thought's just occurred to him, he eases the boy forwards, tips his chin up so he can catch his mouth in a slow, deep kiss, more tender than Marley expected.

And right in that moment of sweetness, as Jensen leans forward to be kissed, it becomes visible where he's speared on the thick curve of Mad Morgan's dick – so _very_ thick and hard. The muscles in the back of Jensen's legs are trembling from exhaustion, and he looks wet as a woman where Mad Morgan's slicked him open and fucked wads of come up in his ass and all over him. 

"Holy fucking Christ," Cannon mutters below his breath, sounding awed and turned on at once. Even Limp, who's supposed to be working on disrupting the spark sensors, is transfixed. 

Marley shoots them both a furious look, but even he's feeling stirrings. God knows how long Mad Morgan's been screwing the little fuckdoll that he can take that huge dick right inside that tight little ass of his, can take it so easily. Maybe he's tougher than he looks. 

Or maybe Mad Morgan just took as long as he needed to bully his cock right in deep where he wanted it. Marley wonders how hard Jensen will have squirmed and fought at first. Whether he cried and begged him not to. 

And Marley realizes he's breathing a little heavier, and his prick's a little harder.

When Mad Morgan settles Jensen back on his dick, Jensen gives a soft, discomforted grunt at the sensation of being full to breathlessness again.

Marley wonders if the fuckdoll was scared the first time Mad Morgan got inside him. He wonders what that looked like. He'd like to carve that expression into the fuckdoll's face for all time and mount his fucking head on the wall as a trophy. He'd like to hold the fuckdoll down and smash his face in with a sledgehammer, so no-one could ever value his beauty again.

"Jeff," says the fuckdoll.

It's the first time he's heard Jensen speak. His voice is deeper than Marley expected. Maybe he's just hoarse from screaming.

Limp and Cannon share a concerned look, but Jensen's only trying to lean forward again, trying to make Mad Morgan kiss him again. 

" _Jeff_ ," the fuckdoll says again, straining against the grip Mad Morgan has on his wrists, and the way his spine bends is fascinating. Marley could twist him up into all kinds of positions.

Mad Morgan cocks his head, and says, " _Oh_ , baby, oh, I know," all soft and dark and full of feeling.

"Almost," Limp whispers, looking at the read-out on the sensor-disruptor in his hand. "'Nother couple of seconds." 

Marley draws his gun, runs through basic last-minute weapon checks. He's going to have to move fast when the spark sensor goes down. He has to get in close, get the fuckdoll out of the way and stick an explosive charge between Mad Morgan's eyes. He'll keep Limp alive until they're out of the compound, and then he, Cannon and Jensen will get out of the city and back to Marley's employers for his payday. 

"I know, darling. It's okay," Mad Morgan's saying. He lets go of Jensen's wrists, hauls him bodily right up himself to lay Jensen out on top of him, chest to chest. His glistening wet dick, still dark and hard with blood, slips free of Jensen's hole and, without Mad Morgan's flesh to plug it in, a line of come dribbles out of Jensen's ass. 

Mad Morgan massages the joints of Jensen's shoulders with the pad of his thumb, 'cause no doubt the little fuckdoll's aching after holding the position all the time while he's been screwed. 

This arrangement of their bodies is not at all helpful for Marley's purposes. He loses a huge chunk of his payout if Jensen gets hurt, and right now, he's completely obscuring Marley's shot. 

He's still considering how he's going to get at Mad Morgan when Limp nudges him and nods his head towards the spark-disruptor. He holds up three fingers, folds one down, folds down the second, but before he can complete the countdown-

"Hey, you scumbags wanna get out of the fucking wall and let me see you?" Mad Morgan calls out. "You really don't want me to have to come drag you out myself."

Limp and Cannon both freeze. Neither of them is hard to unnerve, especially not considering their superstitious belief in Mad Morgan's omniscience. Marley, though displeased at the departure from plan, is not impressed. 

If Mad Morgan's got a weapon, Marley can't see it. There's no alarm sounding, no clue that Padalecki is on his way. All Marley has lost is the element of surprise. He can adapt to a change in circumstances. Most important thing to do is kill Mad Morgan nice and quick. 

He steps out of the wall, Limp and Cannon right behind him, and he raises his gun, prepared to shoot right through the fuckdoll if he has to. 

Cannon's head explodes. Marley doesn't know what's happened at first, only knows that hot blood and white matter are raining down on him. But when he turns around, Cannon's corpse is still standing, with a ragged, bloody stump where his head was five seconds earlier. Then the corpse's knees buckle and it hits the floor, and Limp makes a noise like he's choking and shrinks back against the wall. He's been similarly showered in Cannon's head, with splatters of blood across his face. 

Marley looks right back at Mad Morgan and Jensen, but neither of them looks surprised. Jensen's resting his cheek against Mad Morgan's broad shoulder, and Mad Morgan's stroking the back of his neck. 

"You're not gonna hurt him," Jensen tells Marley. Those dark eyes of his are beautiful, and soulless. 

"And any of you tried to lay so much as one stinking finger on Jen," says Mad Morgan, "I'd pull your teeth out and hammer nails in your gums." 

While Jensen's tone is cool and impassive, Mad Morgan sounds as friendly as ever. He tugs his pants closed and moves into a sitting position, Jensen still curled up and clinging to him. They look pretty damn relaxed on the bed.

Things are going all to hell, and Marley can't figure out how. 

"You don't really think you're the first, do you?" says Mad Morgan, one eyebrow raised. 

Marley doesn't engage in the conversation. He can't while he's still trying to figure out what the hell just happened. He scans the room for covert gun turrets but there aren't any that he can see. Limp didn't mention it as a security issue, but maybe Limp just didn't know about them. After all, Limp knows what he does because he came to get his vicarious kicks watching Mad Morgan screw the whore.

Then Limp's head explodes too, with a noise like a wet slap. Marley sees it happen this time. Not a single warning it's about to happen, just Limp's scared, sweaty face looking back at him, then his head flies apart in a bloody mess. Something sharp hits Marley's cheek and he catches it in his hand, looks down at it and realizes he's holding a fragment of Limp's skull.

His heart is racing and his mouth is dry, but he wheels around to level his gun at Mad Morgan. 

"How did you do that?" he demands. He knows he should keep his eyes on Mad Morgan, but he can't help scanning the length of the room for some sign of the weapon they've triggered. 

Mad Morgan smiles, lazily petting the fuckdoll, running his fingers through its hair. "Like I said, you didn't think you were the first, did you?" he says. "People have got past Jared before, but-" he drops his voice, like he's telling Marley a secret, "-he's not my bodyguard."

All at once, Marley feels very cold. Like he's got no choice, his eyes travel to Jensen, and he feels even colder. Jensen looks back at him. He's still shining with sweat, his own and Mad Morgan's. He's still marked in places, possessive red fingerprints where Mad Morgan's held him.

Mad Morgan gives a low, rumbling laugh. "Yeah," he says. "Everyone thinks they know Jensen. Everyone think they know what he's worth." He strokes the length of Jensen's arm, and there's something fierce and worshipful burning in his eyes as he touches him.

Marley can't make his feet move. They're heavy, stuck to the floor. Panic is overtaking him, tight in his chest, but he can't stop staring back at Jensen.

Jensen's supposed to belong to Pre-Calibration humanity, he's supposed to be the last human left among the freaks. But it's not true, because he's perfect and he's beautiful, and he's less human than anyone Marley's ever met. 

"He's the one who was hired to kill you," says Jensen. He lays his lips against Mad Morgan's bicep in a light kiss. "He can tell us who hired him."

Mad Morgan nods, and looks back at Marley. He seems to find Marley's horror funny.

"See," he says to Marley, "the thing about Jensen is, he can get under anyone's skin."

And Jensen reaches into Marley's dead husk of a body, beneath layers of deformity and bitterness, right inside Marley's head, and says, _Even yours._

~end


End file.
